


Of Solitude and Sorrow

by CastleonaCloud



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Aftercare, Blow Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Pining, You Decide, mentioned Arthur/others, mentioned Dutch/Molly, or manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 22:26:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17692280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CastleonaCloud/pseuds/CastleonaCloud
Summary: [“Why don’t you show me just how sorry you are?” Dutch hums, voice even as he reaches for a cigar, lighting it, focusing on everything but the man in front of him. But the implicationis clear.“D-Dutch..?” Arthur stammers, heart pounding. Because he is really suggesting this. Right here, right now, after all this time.“You heard me, boy.” Dutch replies, lowering his head to finally meet Arthur’s eyes. There’s a heat in them, a danger. And Arthur can’t help but feel drawn to it. Right now, he wants nothing more than for Dutch to reel him in, ground him, put him in his place, just like he used to.So when Dutch leans back on his chair with a creak, spreads his legs and pats his thighs, Arthur drops to his knees with no hesitation.]





	Of Solitude and Sorrow

Arthur wakes with a face full of mud, head pounding and nauseous.

He doesn't remember much, enough to know that he's made a sorry fool of himself yet again.

He'd been in a foul mood, bitter and angry at life, and somewhere along the way decided that drinking would somehow alleviate it. Only it hadn't, and then he’d seen a rather handsy John and Abigail fumbling together en route to John’s tent, followed by Dutch and Molly getting rather cosy in their shared tent, and his mood had plummeted even further, feeling sad, alone and even more bitter.

He drank and drank and turned into a vicious animal, prowling round camp, teeth bared, lashing out at anyone that dared come near him. He’d even made the poor o'driscoll kid cry before someone had eventually grown tired of him and knocked him out.

He cringes at the memory, making a mental note to go and apologise to Kieran at some point. Maybe he’d bring the boy some Burdock root he'd been asking for. That would be a start, at least.

For now he forces himself to sit up, groaning and rubbing a hand over his eyes blearily. Thankfully he’s not too far from camp, he thinks, forcing himself to stand, stumbling slightly as a fresh wave of nausea hits him. But he pushes on, forces himself to think of other things as he slowly trudges back to camp.

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Arriving back at camp was not pleasant. It would seem in his antagonistic rounds he'd managed to upset a good portion of the gang’s population, with only Pearson mumbling a small, forced greeting as Arthur scooped out a helping of stew, fully intending on taking it back to his tent and sulk there for the remainder of the day.

Or so he thought.

“Arthur!”

A familiar, loud, booming voice interrupted him as he sat in his cot, fingering old journal pages and reminiscing on the memories within them until he could hear the also familiar sound of heavy boots stomping over, and his tent flaps were ripped open.

Dutch never had been one for subtleties.

“You have something you want to say to me, son?” Dutch finally speaks, the words forming a demand instead of an actual question as he stands, arms folded across his chest as he stares down, unrelenting at Arthur.

“Leave it, Dutch. I ain’t in the mood.” Arthur waves him off dismissively, shoving his journal back under his cot with a frown, refusing to look up and meet the other’s eyes.

“Now, now, Arthur. Be nice.” Dutch chides, sitting down right next to Arthur, completely ignoring his attempts to shuffle away or make space between them. There’s a tension between the two of them, has been for years, though this is the closest Dutch has allowed himself to be to Arthur in quite some time.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I ain’t much been feelin’ very nice as of late.” Arthur bites out, still refusing to even look at Dutch, hands balling into fists. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, least of all Dutch.

“No, you certainly haven’t. You want to talk about that?” Dutch asks, raising an eyebrow at him and leaning even closer, and Arthur can feel the heat radiating from him, the very presence that he associates with home and comfort. He wants to lean in, get closer, and it makes him both angry and frustrated.

“You even listenin’ to me, Dutch?” Arthur snaps, finally looking up at him with a glare. “I already said I ain’t in the mood.”

“Very well. Though I must say I’m disappointed with your actions.” Dutch relents after a moment, putting a heavy hand on his shoulder as he rises, watching his boy with dark, careful eyes for a few moments before removing it, departing and leaving Arthur instead with the weight of guilt and embarrassment at his behaviour.

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It was early evening when Arthur finally emerges from his tent with the intention of apologising, starting with Dutch. It wasn’t Dutch’s fault, nor anyone else’s that nobody wanted him, and he was certainly feeling a lot less sorry for himself and more just sorry now that his hangover had begun to fade.

The other gang members were all gathered around the campfire or keeping watch, giving Arthur an open path to Dutch’s tent with minimal attention, for which he was thankful.

He loitered outside of the central tent for a moment, worrying his lower lip with teeth, before biting the metaphorical bullet and calling out.

“Dutch? Can I come in?” He asks, shuffling his feet awkwardly.

He wasn’t met with a vocal response, merely the pulling back of tent flaps, and the flick of a wrist. Thankfully Molly was nowhere to be found, although Arthur couldn’t help the awful thrill that rushed through him at the thought of being alone with Dutch in such short quarters for the first time in God knows how long. 

Dutch returned to his seat in the tent, crossing his legs and resting his chin on a palm, looking up at Arthur, scrutinising.

He feels vulnerable, right now. Exposed, like the livestock he sometimes sees for sale at markets. 

He coughs, clearing his throat awkwardly, ducking his face and wishing he'd brought his hat to avoid Dutch’s gaze as he finally works up the courage to speak.

“I came to apologise, Dutch. ‘Bout last night, and this mornin’. It weren’t right, how I acted.” He mumbled, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. He’s still unhappy with himself, even more knowing how unhappy Dutch is with him too.

His mind is thinking back to other times Dutch had been unhappy with him too, and before he can help it he’s flushing, memories of being bent over the other’s lap shamelessly filling his mind before he can help it.

If Dutch notices he doesn’t say anything at first, but there’s a glint in his eye now as he regards Arthur now. It sends a chill down Arthur’s spine. There’s a warmth pooling in his gut and the beginnings of desire flooding into his veins and he knows he needs to get out of here, before he says something he’ll regret, before he makes everything worse, because Dutch doesn’t want him like that anymore, hasn’t done so for a while.

“A-Anyway, I’ll get outta your hair, I guess, reckon I got some other apologies to be dishin’ out..” He speaks rapidly, half his words coming out incoherently as he makes a beeline for the tent flaps, when Dutch clears his throat, and Arthur stops,rooted in place, unable to bring himself to turn around.

“I’m not done with you, Arthur.” His words are enough to make Arthur visibly shudder, inhaling sharply.

“Turn around.” He orders, and Arthur follows, spinning around faster than he can think.

He still can’t meet Dutch’s eyes, though. He fidgets, wringing his hands and looking absolutely anywhere but at the man stoking the fires that have ignited within him.

“Why don’t you show me just how sorry you are?” Dutch hums, voice even as he reaches for a cigar, lighting it, focusing on everything but the man in front of him. But the implicationis clear.

“D-Dutch..?” Arthur stammers, heart pounding. Because he is really suggesting this. Right here, right now, after all this time.

“You heard me, boy.” Dutch replies, lowering his head to finally meet Arthur’s eyes. There’s a heat in them, a danger. And Arthur can’t help but feel drawn to it. Right now, he wants nothing more than for Dutch to reel him in, ground him, put him in his place, just like he used to.

So when Dutch leans back on his chair with a creak, spreads his legs and pats his thighs, Arthur drops to his knees with no hesitation.

He crawls towards Dutch in anticipation, arms reaching up, hovering. He wants to touch.

But Dutch hasn’t said he can, yet.

So instead he waits, eyes fixed on the ground as his cheeks flush, redness spreading down his neck and chest.

It’s been a long time since he’s been on his knees like this for Dutch. Too long.

“Well? Get to it already.” Dutch huffs, and Arthur is on him like clockwork.

Falling back into his rightful place at Dutch’s feet, fishing his half-hard cock out with clumsy fingers, ready to worship Dutch with fingers and tongue.

He’s hesitant, at first. Slow. Wraps his fingers around Dutch’s length, kissing the underside, pressing his lips against the tip and suckling, coaxing him to hardness.

But Dutch must become impatient, because he’s tutting at Arthur, and a hand is sliding into his hair, metal rings getting stuck in sandy strands, and he’s pulling and all Arthur can try and do is swallow Dutch without choking.

“Open up for me Arthur, there’s a boy.” Dutch rumbles, putting the cigar down so that both hands can hold Arthur’s face now, thumbs wiping away the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.

He tries. It’s hard, and he can’t help but gag a little, but he tries. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe through his nose as Dutch holds and fucks his face. He isn’t gentle. But Arthur doesn’t need gentle right now.

He needs Dutch to use him, to earn his forgiveness.  
His own member throbs, still confined in his pants. But Arthur isn’t concerned about that at all, Not when Dutch’s own is filling his mouth so nicely, making his jaw ache in the sweetest way.

Dutch, however, doesn’t seem as happy to ignore it. He shifts, holding Arthur firmly still, and moves his leg forward, pressing his boot into Arthur’s crotch and arthur chokes, spit drooling down his chin and onto the ground.

“You like that, son?” Dutch asks, and Arthur wants to respond. Wants to nod, say yes, tell Dutch how his body is singing for him. But he can’t, all he can do is take what Dutch offers, crying out as the boot presses even harder against his cock, precum leaking through his pants now, and he moans around Dutch’s length, helpless as his hips grind against the boot.

“Yeah you do, don’t you, boy? Be grateful, because this is all your getting.” Dutch grits his teeth, hips stuttering forward as he finally begins to lose his constant composure. He twitches, hand fisting back into Arthur’s hair, pulling his head back as he finishes all over Arthur’s face with a growl.

“Look at you, Arthur, a real mess.” Dutch says, as soon as he’s recovered, ringed fingers swirling around the cum staining his chin. And it’s true. Arthur is panting, tears flowing freely, throat entirely wrecked, but he’s moaning Dutch’s name as best he can, lost in the pleasure that has come from being used so thoroughly and the pressure against his leaking cock. He’s close.

“D-Dutch, please. Please?” He begs, voice cracking with strain, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Go on then, Arthur.” And that was all the permission Arthur needed, finishing inside his own underwear like a teenage boy.

He begs and moans a string of incomprehensible things, until he’s only crying. Broken, left undone and ready for Dutch, his saviour, to pick up his pieces and put him back together again.

“Easy now.” He’s murmuring, voice much softer now.

“Dutch. . !” He croaks out pathetically, arms extending out to grab onto him.

And Dutch has him. Arthur finds himself being lifted up and guided to the cot, following the directions mindlessly so long as Dutch doesn’t let go of him.

He’s bundled up in blankets before he realises, sniffling and curling into Dutch, needy.

“Shhh, son. Just lie back and relax.” And he tries, Arthur does. He’s bundled up in Dutch’s arms now, sniffling as Dutch reaches over to grab a nearby rag, beginning to clean him up as he slowly comes round.

When he opens his eyes again, his head is resting against Dutch’s chest, and there are fingers gently carding through his hair. He blinks, peering up at man holding him.

“You ready to talk now about it now, Arthur?” He asks, surprisingly patient as he pushes a few strands of hair back, his gentleness a sharp contrast from earlier, but needed all the same.

Arthur sighs, burying his face in Dutch’s neck.

“Guess I was just . . tired of being on my lonesome is all. Got mad. Got drunk. It was stupid. I’m real sorry, Dutch.” He mumbles. It all seems especially silly now that he’s here, warm and comfortable and safe in Dutch’s arms.

“Oh Arthur. My boy, my special boy.” Dutch coos, thumb brushing over a cheekbone. “You can always come to me. You know that, don’t you?”

And Arthur wants to, he does. But it’s not that easy, it never is. Not now, when Dutch has Molly to warm his nights and Arthur had and then lost Mary, and then Eliza and Isaac, and then John. By this point Arthur is well aware of the curse that follows him around, claiming those near and dear to him. He can’t afford, nor is he entitled any of this.

But right now all he can focus on his desire to appease Dutch.

“Yeah, Dutch. I know.”

“Good. Then we’ll say no more about it.” Dutch says, and that is that.

And if anyone sees Arthur reemerging from Dutch’s tent later that evening, looking awfully disheveled with the slightest of limps, they don’t say anything.

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to just be pure pwp but then I got emotional. Oops.
> 
> Thanks for reading. (:


End file.
